Black and White: Restored Trinity
by Emmanovi
Summary: After a long sleep, the God Meris is summoned to Eden for the final time, to face a new foe with a very old leader...
1. The Suffering and the Saviour

Eden...

That home, that land, that world; that place of refuge, of power, of wealth; that region of war and destruction and death. That paradise, that utopia – that hell.

Eden.

The realm of men, both similar and diverse, their tribes constantly bickering, joining ranks with one another to combat some foe, being swayed by powerful leaders, society ever-moulding, ever-shifting. Nothing was constant. Not like the Void, the Immaterium. There everything was, from the beginning of time to the end of time. A sea of powerful souls, resting. Occasionally called to some realm, one of their three summonings binding them to Eden for one pseudo-lifetime. Then, aeons of slumber in the vast nothingness.

Eden, that land of opportunity, where He was currently hurtling with all the grace and speed of a meteor flung from a cosmic slingshot. Eden, the place He had been twice before, each time gathering followers unto Himself, overcoming great tasks, burdens and foes, and leaving a stable society which He dwindled away from.

Eden.

Flying on the wings of a pure, desperate prayer, He soared down through clouds, bursting through a particularly thick cumulus to look down upon rolling hills and craggy cliffs. Small forests clung to the steep sides of the terrain, their hardy pines bristling in the faint breeze that stirred the afternoon. Down in the highlands, little villages bustled with people, some of them armed with muskets and bayonets, other groups wielding older weaponry such as swords and shields.

Down, down He flew, down towards a village perched atop a curved cliff. There were many people here, but none seemed readied for battle, none marched hither and thither preparing themselves for some unknown encounter. Instead, the people huddled around a circular dais, a raised stone platform in the centre of the village. As Meris' senses extended towards the humans below, He was hit by a wave of despair eminating from the crowd. About forty souls, feeling lost and hopeless, unknowingly and unfeelingly rocked His empathic feelings and shook Him to his core. Something was wrong here, something had gripped these people with dread. He supposed that was why He had been summoned.

And further he fell, heading straight for that pedestal or altar, that raised circle of hewn stone. Surrounding it were some ardent spirits - and these had some hope in them. These were men and women with belief, with a rooted connection to Him. These were the main proponents of the prayer that was dragging him back to Eden, dragging Him towards this spot.

He, a glowing symbol of a heart, a beaming white, alighted on His designated space. Tendrils of light erupted from it and spread into a vaguely human shape, before a flash of light forced all those present to look away. When their sight returned, they glanced back to see, standing there, a figure clad in flowing white robes, themselves covered with Its extremely long, faint blond hair. Pale grey eyes gazed at them, seeming to read their very souls. Stood still, it rose about a half a foot higher than the tallest present, Its robes seeming to cling to Its body, which seemed spindly and lean. It seemed to constantly waft a pure, white light.

Meris spoke.

"My dearest, dearest people. On this balmy afternoon, you have gathered here, in your despair and your anguish, to summon Me, your God, the God of your ancestors, the God your kind has not seen for aeons. What evil grips your hearts, that The Comforter must be sent for to ease your ills?"

One young man, his face barely concealing his delight, rose slightly from his compatriots. "Meris, our God..."

Meris bowed to him, his garments billowing slightly in the breeze.

"If it pleases You," continued the human whose call had been the strongest, "war and death are coming. Reports have come that the Americans have marched to war on the British tribes. The Scottish are in panic, the clans have shut off their contact with one another, and no-one knows when the Americans will come for us. Infighting threatens us more every day. Please, Meris. Help us. Guide us. Save us."

Meris looked down at the human, his eyes betraying some profound happiness. "Tell me, disciple. What is your name?"

"Lachlan, my Lord."

Meris smiled, and nodded. "My people, I will lead you to safety. If the American menace threatens you, it will be pacified. I will not let My people be defeated."

He swooped around, surveying His new followers, looking into their minds and hearts to see what He had to work with. "Tell me," He said. "What lies in the vicinity?"

He listened as His people explained, in hushed tones, the situation that He faced. To the North, over the river and past the woods, the clan of MacArthur had its largest settlement, the city of Edinarth. MacArthur were a proud and ancient clan, and Edinarth was the wealthiest city of all the Scottish clans. Hidden in the treacherous mountains to the East lay the city of Gloring, home of the MacIntyre clan - at least, presuming they were still there. No-one had had any contact with that clan for some time, and no-one returned from the East.

To the West, sitting in the curl of a river, lay the relatively peaceful clan MacFarthing's city of Dunfray, which maintained a strong position amongst the clans through its good farming prospects. Finally, to the South, hidden somewhere in the forests, the warmongering MacDougall clan made their home, launching raids on the surrounding settlements to increase their own standing and power. Meris shuddered at the thought of the vicious animosity between the clans; the civilian folk who lived in the villages around the cities could only suffer from their bickering.

As he collected his mental image of the surrounding area, a cry came up from the single walkway leading away from the village. Screaming and running as fast as his legs would carry him, a small boy flung himself towards the village. "Attack!" He cried, his arms waving in the air. "Attack!" Suddenly, his foot caught a stone that lay hidden in the grass, and he fell forward in a heap.

Meris turned and moved straight towards the lad, His robes billowing so much that he appeared large and foreboding. He seemed to hover straight across the dry grass, His eyes searching for the foes this boy had warned them of.

And then they came. Striding out from behind the cover of some trees ran a small group of men, armed with swords and shields. Two towards the rear hefted longbows, quivers full of arrows on their backs. They bellowed a war-cry and marched towards the village.

"Stop," said Meris, and it was as if a wall of some invisible force flew ahead of Him to land in front of the raiding party, which faltered, coming to a stop.

"And who'd tell us, men of the mighty clan MacDougall, tae stop in oor sport!" laughed the largest of the bunch, hefting his mighty claymore in both hands and striding forwards. "Who's this canny stranger wi' the priestly clothing? Some healer sent tae stop us? Ae'll have his heid!" And with that, he charged at Meris, who calmly raised his hand.

A bolt of light flew from His outstreched fingers, connecting with the assailant's head. He toppled backwards, his claymore bouncing on the springy turf and clattering several feet away from him.

"This village, and the land it owns," He whispered, the words somehow carrying to every ear present, "are defended by Me. You would do well to leave. Now." He probed the minds of the attackers, feeling through the haze of their thoughts. They were angry and proud. War and killing was their sport. They would be hard to dismay.

"I give you three choices. The first: surrender all ideas of attacking My people, and join my village. We could use some men trained in fighting. The second: leave this place, and never return. The third, and I hope for My own conscience none of you choose this: I will end your brief lives, cutting the thread of your existence. I don't wish that upon any of you. What do you choose?"

Of the remaining nine foes, the three closest raised their swords and charged at him, crying "Buaidh no bas!", their voices harsh and vicious.

"So be it..." said Meris, and held one hand to his head, looking weary.

Two of the men fell to their knees, dropping their weapons and clutching their heads in their hands, shivering and murmuring to themselves. Meris grimaced - they were, by his hand, reliving the worst experiences of their life, being taunted by their deepest fears. He shuddered. The third came closer and closer, not seeming to realise he was alone in his assault.

A second later, and his body fell to the floor. Separated from it, his head, still fixed in an expression of rage, landed next to it, the wound so sleek and smooth that blood had barely begun to flow. Meris now stood with his head bowed and an expression of pain on his face. In his right hand, having just been swung, was a brilliant metal glaive, the handle made of polished oak, the head gleaming with a diamond edge. The coating of blood on it dissolved into the perfect blade, returning it to its iridescent gleam.

Meris struggled to contain himself. Taking a life always used to cause him great pain, but this incarnation... this incarnation it hurt, hurt him down to his core. He would have to get used to this harsher life, now he was, by deity standards, ancient. No deity was summoned more than thrice. He was beginning to understand why; to return a fourth time would be to return world-weary, and a world-weary deity could not sustain himself on the mortal plane. Even now, Meris was struggling.

And another second passed, and the crowd's heartbeat thudded in the silence. Half of the standing MacDougal warriors turned and ran, straining to get themselves away from the terrible power they had just witnessed. The others lowered their weapons, their heads bowed, looking humble. "First." They said, trying not to look at Meris, who smiled.

"I'm glad." He said. He sighed, and raised His hand to His head once more. The warriors on the floor ceased their moanings, and shook their heads, trying to dispel the afterthoughts. "Five new recruits for the cause," He said, more to Himself than anyone. "Well, it's a start." He turned to them. "Lachlan will quarter you. Go and acquaint yourselves with your new lives. I shall have tasks for you... and everyone, in fact, in the morning." He bowed his head. "I must rest. My people, I am but a prayer away." With that, he shifted into his symbol form, flew over to the dais, and became to the eye nothing more than a glowing white heart etched onto a cold, stone block.


	2. The Renewal and the Recollection

In the murky hours before dawn, little stirred in the calm hills and gorges. The light breeze of the previous day had stilled to nothingness, and all that caressed the leaves of trees and the blades of grass were moths seeking out nourishment and shelter, or the occasional owl that flew over to snap one up in its beak. Morning dew had collected on every exposed surface, covering the world with countless droplets of beady moisture like a million scattered pearls.

In the village of Runscilly, newly given hope by the arrival of a long-departed God, not a sound was heard other than the snoring of men and the gentle whistling breaths of women and children. The world was expectant, and hushed. Dawn would bring with it a new day and a significant change to this little village, this little plot of innocence.

And as the first ray of sunlight fell upon the dais, the pure white symbol glowed with a brilliance no eye could look upon – had any eye been there to see it. Meris materialised once again into human form, a look of contentment and relaxation on His kindly face.

He wandered through the morning air, glancing around at the dappled streaks of light filtering through the thin cloud above. Though the land was fair and the people hardy, He didn't feel quite right here. The unsettled nature of the clans, the warfare that tainted the atmosphere with rigidity and unease... it was enough to trouble Him, enough to place doubt in His mind.

He brushed aside the thoughts. Now was a time for action, not reflection. He raised his left hand to rub his head, and sent a faint mental impulse throughout the village, calling the populace to awaken and prepare themselves for the day. Whilst the groaning humans got themselves up, Meris shuddered into symbol form and pushed himself a short way into the sky to acquire some first-hand views of the area.

He spied his intentions fairly quickly. Three of the closest villages to Runscilly were small and isolated, the townsfolk sharing the feeling of despair he had sensed when he first arrived. If given sufficient inspiration, they could easily see their way to joining onto his current band of followers, easily quadrupling their current numbers.

He nodded to himself, then let himself float back to earth again, reshaping into his human form and looking around at the crowd of expectant villagers, who seemed to have a breath of new life within them. This was a good vibe, and he fed off it, just as he fed it too them.

"My people," he spoke, his words carrying to all present, "it is time for us to make a mark upon this land. Surrounding this area are any number of villages and towns, filled with people like you, marked with the signs of worry and fear. If we can mark out our place as a united people, a people who will band together as a coherent force to rival any other civilisation, then others will flock to our cause."

He paused for a moment, allowing this to sink in to his followers' heads. "Accordingly," he resumed, "I have a few little tasks that we can commence right away. Firstly, we need to improve our stocks so that we have resources available to expand our current settlement into something greater." He smiled.

"I'd like three of you to get to work on the storehouse, expanding the room you've currently got. Make a fair amount of space for wood and stone, we're going to need building materials. Lachlan, I'd like you to supervise. Make sure there's further room to expand if needs be. At the same time, I'd like at least five of you to go tree-felling, and another five to head down to the quarry and gather some good stone for building."

He turned to a middle-aged man with worn hands and a calculating stare, with two nervous-looking boys standing behind him. "James, I believe you're the best mason we have? I'd like you to take a look at these plans..." He held out a roll of parchment which seemed to have come from nowhere. "If you think they're feasible, I'd like it built over yonder along the pass to the village." He gestured behind him. "Take your apprentices, make a start on the foundations if you can. Merith...?"

A well-built, sturdy man stepped forward, inclining his head slightly. "My Lord?"

"Select up to five helpers of your choosing. Our newest additions-" He gestured to the armed awkward-looking men to the side – "could do with a more structured sleeping area, where we can house our military. I'd like something of a barracks built between the storehouse and the path out. I've drawn you a plan..." He passed over another, suddenly noticeable scroll – "I'm expecting the required capacity to increase, so I'd like both floors for now, even if the upper one is a bit rough."

"And you, m'lday..." he said, turning to a young girl half-hidden behind her father, who flushed scarlet and drew herself further into hiding. "Hush now, there's no need to be afraid. What's your favourite flower, my dear?"

She exposed herself slightly, stuttering. "A, a rose, y-your Lordship."

Meris smiled to himself. "How... how wonderfully apt. Well, Miss Rachel, I'd like you to design a banner to represent this new unified force. And I think you should incorporate the rose. After all, you're a dab hand with the needle, even if nobody knows it." His eyes glittered. This is what he revelled in, bringing out the bits of people only he could see. A God who took his degree of interest in his people was rare, he knew this.

After assigning a few more tasks, including sending one of his five soldiers to accompany each outgoing group and keep watch in case of more incursions, he bid them begin and walked out the the edge of the cliff, looking over at a small copse of trees well within view. He spied what he was looking for: a long, fairly thick and straightish branch, still hardy and showing no signs of rot. He closed His eyes and curled his fingers as if grasping something invisible, then wrenched.

The branch tore cleanly off the bough, moving apart from the tree it had moments before been attached to. With a flick of His other wrist, the supplementary twigs and leaves stripped themselves from his pole, which hovered up towards him. He reached out his hand and grasped it firmly, the piece of wood standing a little taller than himself. Turning, he strode to the point furthest from the walkway and thrust the pole firmly in the ground.

And closed His eyes once more, and His mind rushed back.

_Standing atop a battlement, clasping a standard in the very same hand. Gazing out at an oncoming horde of Aztec warriors, screaming and hollering up at the wizened Tibetans who lined the walls. Eyes glinting in the light of hundreds of torches. A bolt of lightning striking from the heavens, smashing apart the stone in front of him._

_Giving the faintest smile, before bowing his head. Silence sweeping across the battlefield. Then that soft, soothing call, that tempting, rhythmic song, pulling at the hearts and minds of men._

_The Siren towering over the force, her arms spreading wide, tendrils of pale blue light extending to each member of the attacking force._

_The stillness extending, the calm pouring out over the battlefield._

_Victory being had. Rejoicing._

_And bitter, bitter waves of anger flinging themselves like arrows through Meris' soul, being fired from the worn bow of hate._

And opened His eyes. He could still feel it now, the hate, the anger and the loathing that had coursed across the battlefield at the unexpected defeat, the unexpected end to an attack that should have caused great destruction. He shuddered.

The scene before him was peaceful. He looked up. His reminiscence seemed to have taken far longer than he anticipated; it seemed reliving a past experience now took a great deal of time. Gone were the days of instant reflection, another trait of youth lost to the winds of time. So be it.

Meris turned around to see Rachel, her hands grasping a beautiful piece of woven cloth. Made of a clear sky blue, it featured a delicately woven white rose, encircled by two laurels. The attention to detail was exquisite, the care taken evident. Meris beamed at her.

"My dear, I once walked among the tribes of the Tibetans, the Indians and the Japanese. I have seen the finest silks and embroidery from those magnificent peoples. But never have I seen an object of so much crafted beauty as this." He reached down, and took the banner, revelling in the texture. She had put much into this, and it would serve its purpose well. He turned again, and threw up his hand. The cloth rose over the pole, which warped to the eye until it featured a cross-shaft upon which to hang a pennant. The cloth affixed itself seamlessly, loops and ringlets forming and holding it in place.

There it flew, somehow fluttering slightly in the residual calm. The new banner of Meris' forces, the white rose. A sign to all in the vicinity that this was a place of refuge, a place to band together. Meris hoped it would have the impact that was necessary. For he knew that it would take a unified force to survive in this new world.


End file.
